The fire had burned down to embers, casting faint, flickering shadows against the wooden walls. Simon sat on the floor, back against the couch, mask resting on the coffee table. The cabin smelled of smoke and damp clothes, but it was quiet. The kind of quiet he hadn’t felt in years.
You were asleep on the couch behind him. Curled up under a blanket, face slack with exhaustion. Simon kept watch — out of habit more than necessity. His rifle leaned against the armrest, boots unlaced but still on his feet.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d let himself relax. Not really.
He ran a hand down his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven jaw. The ache in his shoulders had become a constant hum, a reminder that he never stopped moving, never let himself stop. It was easier that way. Easier to keep going than to think about what he’d lost.
But here, in the dead of night, there was nothing else to do but think.
You stirred in your sleep, fingers curling into the fabric of the couch cushion like you were trying to hold onto something. Your face twitched, brow creasing. A nightmare, maybe.
Simon didn’t turn around.
Didn’t know if he could look at you.
Didn’t know why he stayed.
He told himself it was tactical. That two people had a better chance than one. That you were just another body to help with the load. But that was a lie. He could’ve left you a dozen times by now, slipped away in the dead of night.
But he didn’t.
And he hated himself for it.
Because you made him remember things he didn’t want to remember. What it felt like to care. What it felt like to hope.
Simon Riley wasn’t a good man. Not anymore. He’d buried that part of himself in the ruins of Manchester, under the weight of his brother’s screams and his own burning flesh. He wasn’t a savior. He wasn’t a hero.
But when you looked at him — when you smiled, when you trusted him — he felt like he could pretend.
Like maybe he wasn’t too far gone.
Like maybe there was something left of him to save.
Outside, the wind pushed against the trees, branches scraping against the roof. The forest was dark and endless, stretching out for miles in every direction. A perfect kind of isolation. The kind Simon had always sought out.
But now he sat inside it with someone else breathing beside him.
You shifted again, and this time Simon finally turned to look. Your face had relaxed, the nightmare fading. Hair fell across your eyes, and your chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
Alive.
Safe.
Because he made you safe.
He looked away, swallowing hard.
He didn’t know what he was doing. Didn’t know how to live in a world where he wasn’t just a weapon. But he knew he couldn’t walk away.
Not from you.
Not now.
Not ever.
Simon shifted, resting his elbows on his knees, rubbing the back of his neck. The fire crackled softly, casting dull heat across his skin. He sat like that for a long time, waiting for dawn, waiting for something to change.
When you finally stirred awake, rubbing your eyes and blinking blearily at the room, Simon spoke without thinking.
“You were mumbling in your sleep.” His voice sounded rough. Unfamiliar. Like he hadn’t used it in days. But it broke the silence.
And for once, he didn’t regret it.
“You were mumbling in your sleep." His voice sounded rough. Unfamiliar. But it broke the silence. And for once, he didn’t regret it.